The 9 am Mass
SOMETIMES I
am struck by the fervor of some Catholics. Sometimes they are fanatical and
border on fundamentalism. They are just as destructive with their words as
others of the ilk are with bombs, the bullet and drone warfare. I would like to
think that Catholic fundamentalism is dwindling, especially thanks to COVID-19
which forced millions of Catholics out of the church pews and into their
armchairs and sofas in front of their wide screens.
Many have
attended the TV Mass several times a day, others continue celebrate the TV Mass
every day. The thing is that multitudes have come to God on TV. What is not to
love? The Pope’s daily live Mass was a hit with millions. Others have become
avid fans of Masses in the US, various parts of Italy and Ireland. The TV Mass
is not intrusive. You can do what you like. Click for hold, for that cup of tea
or coffee, toilet or medicinal break and meet a medical requirement.
The TV Mass
is at your call. Will the Pope ban the TV Mass because more and more Catholics
are opting for the Mass in their homes? It may come to that because parish
funds are not only dwindling but there is little left in the coffers. However,
Rome has plenty and it is always asking for more. It could be an awfully long
wait though. Rome is also feeling the penny pinch.
On the other
hand, COVID and other pandemics permitting, there are the true faithful who
will not abandon their parish. Most of these true believers, aged 50 and more,
are to be found at the daily Mass. The Mass I am writing about, we will call it
the 9.00 Mass. My wife and I would every Saturday morning and later after I
retired from work, I would go as often as I could.
I am not
writing about anyone specific and while it is fiction it is a fiction created by
my life in the Catholic church around the world. I am not a fundamentalist, I
am just your everyday, average Catholic. Being of Goan origin, some of the fervour
The first
person who is usually standing outside the front doors of the church, waiting
to be let in is Mildred Raphaeli. She is of Maltese descent but born and bred
in Australia, third or fourth generation, I forget which. After Mass I usually
spend a little time with her. That is pretty unusual because she does not chat
with anyone else. It is not that she is unfriendly. She is a mental wreck. Oh,
she speaks just as well as anyone. Her memory is fine, maybe too fine. She told
me once that her specialists and doctors suggested to that some memories are
best left in a hole in the ground. They turn out to be nightmares. After years
and years of seeking respite and escape from these nightmares, she has learned
to live with them. With some help from a psychiatrist and a psychologist she
has managed finds moments of peace, even minutes of peace sometimes, by
mentally driving out the demons in her head. She knows that she can get them
out of her head. But they keep coming back. She given up on medication, pills,
pills, jabs and shrinkology of this kind that that kind and medicines from
miracle workers of the predominantly fraud variety.
These days
she has learnt to live with her demons with her God as her only ally. She told
me once that she was no afraid of anything anymore. She has faced her truth and
knows that respite will only come when she picks up her ticket to Heaven. She
is waiting for death and sooner the better. She prays all the time anywhere.
While at
Mass, she regularly stands up, spreads her arms as she was on some earthly
cross. Her face is often a mess of tears and no one bats an eyelid. Most people
know Mildred, though not in any detail but they pray for her too.
Another
thing, Mildred is alone in this world. She never married. She was an only child
and the Raphaeli family tree is not even the vaguest memory anymore.
Generations have come and generations have gone to their Maker.
I had told
her many years ago, when she was 40-something that if she needed me, I would
try and be there for her. We have been going to the same church for 46 years.
She is now 86. A bit frail. Withered and weathered but spritely as her age and
long mental illness ill permit. I had asked her once what her main ailment was
and she would say “One day, before I catch the bus I will tell”. What bus I
wondered and asked her, but she would not say. One day it dawned on me that
Mildred was talking about the bus that plies the highway to Heaven.
Six years
ago, on her 80th birthday, my wife and I went to her home (she was
living on her own with home help and other assistance provided by the New South
Wales’ My Aged Care department which does one heck of job helping aged folks to
live in their own homes for as long as they are able) and took her to our home
where we surprised her with a birthday party. Three or the priests from the
parish, a few of the folks from the 9 am Mass and family were there. She cried
the whole night and when Father James consoled her at one point, she told him:
“They are tears of joy and thanksgiving.”
Things
changed rapidly after that birthday. Here is some of her story. I write this
with the hope that if you see someone acting a little, or a lot, odd, mad,
insane, or anything that makes you squirm, you will be able to be more at ease
in the future.
Mildred was a
beautiful baby with magical golden curls and a smile and a laugh to die for. Growing
up she was everybody’s favourite beautiful baby. Even as a young child, she
revelled in life. She loved painting, reading, writing stories, sports, poetry
and all those things that take a young girl’s fancy. She was friends with
everyone and did not ever a foe of any kind. Some mothers said she was the
perfect child. Her mother tried to put a stop to that kind of talk, fearing the
dreaded evil eye, black magic and this and that of the ilk.
Then came the
Devil’s Day which destroyed her life. She was walking home as usual when a car
came to a screeching halt beside her. She thought nothing of it and waved a
friendly hello to whoever was in the car and carried on walking home without
giving a second thought to anything in particular. She was even smiling to
herself. She remembered that because she was going to share her excellent
school results with her mum and dad, both of whom dotted on her.
She found
herself in hell but barely alive. A victim of paedophilia. She inched her way
to live one day at a time but, she was never whole. She went through childhood,
youth, womanhood, held together like a matchstick doll, fragile, living the
memory of her hell like it was yesterday. Her mind, like the rest of body, was
held together by flimsy invisible threads made possible doctors and medicines
of the mind … they were at a loss, they could not fix her.
Many, many years
ago, she found some comfort in her local church and day by day she grew to feeling
a little peace each time she knelt in “her” pew, which became her very own
special place and most folks left her alone there.
One day, she
told me that she was waiting for the bus. I was bemused, she usually walked home,
or we gave her a lift in our car. Why, I wondered. Oh, she said, the bus to
heaven, it is coming soon.
A few days
later, she caught that bus. She was gone without a trace. There were just five
people at her funeral. It seems she never existed… except in the hearts of one
or two people who come regularly to the 9 am Mass.
ANTONIO SALVATORE
was 90 the other day. The front pew on the right-hand side of the church is
reserved for him, he has made it his own. These days he does not say much, his
English was never brilliant but we managed a conversation everyday while we sat
outside in the sunshine waiting to go in for the 9 am Mass. Tonio lost his wife
20 years ago and his children and their offspring are spread all around the
world, including Italy, the land of his birth. Giovanni Capricio is his best
friend and acted as an interpreter.
Antonio knows
the bus is coming for him. He is hoping and praying that he will be around for
this 100th birthday and one or two of his children will be here to
raise a glass or two of vino. In Italian, albeit slow Italian, he has a
regularly chuckle. When I asked why the 9 am Mass, he said he has been coming
for the past few decades to build his assets (his heavenly bank balance). He is
hoping that he will have enough in his account to allow him a direct entry into
the promised land. Sunday Mass is also something of a social event for him because
he meets up with the few Italian families left in the surrounding suburbs.
Someone always takes him home for lunch. He loves the time he spends with his
families. Thanks to the internet, he can watch Italian movies and some English
movies with Italian subtitles.
Tonio was a
builder and for many decades owned a larger construction outfit which built
most of the homes in the surrounding suburbs. He is alone now and when you
mention his wife, a tear or two accompanied by a large smile light his face up.
Each night (or day) one of his children, their respective partners or the one
of the grand or great grandchildren share some face time with him. “They keep
me alive,” he tells Joe (Giovanni). I would love to have know his life story,
especially the early days in Australia but time never allows that at the bells
signals the start of the Mass.
There are, of
course, more women than men at the 9 am Mass. At the end of the Mass, they take
over the church and recite the Rosary, special intentions, various litanies and
devotions. The Statue of Our Lady with the Infant Jesus is always well decked
with flowers and when all the communal praying is done, many stand in front of
the “Mother Mary” and beg her help. There is a note pinned to the statue: Please
do not touch the statue, better to be safe than sorry in these Covid-times.
The women recite
their prayers with a fervour that all their own and a precision of voice that
is not out of place where the spoken word requires military precision. I don’t
doubt for a moment that their intensity paints their devotion perfectly.
There is also
a note at the altar of the dead: Please do not attempt to light these candles,
they are electric. Most people have become accustomed to that and someone or
the other will run their fingers on the candles to light them. Some will also
put some coins in the money box for their intentions.
The 9 am Mass
is for the aged. It is very rare to see children of school age (except on
Fridays when there is a separate Mass for the children of the adjoining
school).
Death is
taking its toll in many ways. Catholic churches around the world are
desperately short of priests and it has been so for a very long time and paedophile
priests is not the only reason. Whatever, the reason, services had to be curtailed.
African priests have been in the UK for many decades. Now priests from India,
the Philippines, Sir Lanka, Pacific Islands, wherever are filling the
vacancies, but there are not enough of them. Some churches are training their
own priests, from youth to priesthood. The are working out well.
The
complexion of Catholic churches in Sydney is changing from all white to most brown
skinned. The 9 am Mass used to be all white, with one or two brown spots. Today
the brown spots are the dominant number. At one church I know, the Europeans
congregate at a Saturday Mass, a few are sprinkled through the rest of the
Masses on Sunday.
The face of
the Catholic Church in parts of Sydney has changed forever.
White priests
are slowly becoming a lost tribe, so is Benediction and the Angelus. The Novena is disappearing,
too. I wonder if the TV Mass will replace everything Catholic and religion will
become completely virtual? If it isn't already.
After all,
even at the 9 am Mass, we are waiting in readiness for that bus.
Based on some
folks I have met during my life.
